**A Chat with Conscience**
My marriage to Emily was crumbling before my eyes. It wasn’t the shouting matches—just the fatigue, the daily grind, the endless lack of time and attention. Work, kids, cooking, cleaning, school, clubs… We might as well have been living parallel lives: under the same roof, but in different worlds. I’d come home late, she’d already be asleep with a book or her phone. Mornings were a quick “Morning,” and off we dashed. More and more, a thought nagged: *Is this really life?*
Then, into our office walked Sophie—new, young, vibrant, with sparks in her eyes. Easy company. She laughed at my jokes, batted her lashes over printer help, looked at me with admiration I hadn’t felt from my wife in ages. So I courted her: coffees, compliments, lunches “off-site.” At home, I lied—meetings ran late, a mate’s laptop needed fixing. Claimed I was burnt out. Lied straight to Emily’s face. All for Sophie, who’d promised me *something* this Saturday.
I was giddy with anticipation. Plans set: she’d be waiting, I’d ditch the “family duties.” Friday night, I came home late, buzzing, grinning like an idiot.
Emily met me. Exhausted, shadows under her eyes, in that ancient dressing gown. Kids already asleep. She scanned me like airport security—knew instantly something was off. But stayed quiet. Warmed up dinner, slid the plate my way, sighed:
“Dishes tomorrow. No energy left.”
Then vanished to bed. I ate, showered, peeked in. She’d crashed in her clothes, hair still tied. On the nightstand? Our old photo album. Must’ve been flipping through before sleep.
I couldn’t sleep. Adrenaline kept me wired. So I grabbed the album.
Photo by photo, the past reeled me back. First meeting. Walks. Emily, young, giggly, cheeks rosy. Us on holiday by the seaside, arms tangled, cocktails in hand, laughing. And me… happy. Properly, stupidly in love.
Then—zap. Like a lightning strike.
*Where’d it all go?* Why’d I stop seeing the woman I’d once chased? *I* was the one who buried her under chores, exhaustion, routine. *I* stopped noticing, surprising, saying the kind things.
Lying there, album open, one thought looped: *Why chase feelings elsewhere when they’re right here?*
By 5 AM, I was at a 24-hour florist. Rang Mum, begged her to take the kids. Raced home—breakfast, sandwiches, coffee in her favourite mug, tray and all. Emily woke to the smell and noise. Confused. Almost wary.
I knelt by the bed. “Sorry. I’m an idiot. Give me a chance.”
Then—the bouquet. So big her hands shook. Then we laughed, hugged, and for the first time in ages, I felt *alive*.
Sophie got a polite goodbye. Felt grubby, shameful. Blocked her number. No more lies. That same day, I booked Emily into a salon—manicure, massage, blowout. That evening? The restaurant where we’d celebrated our engagement. Next day—cinema, park, coffees on a bench.
And suddenly, there they were—her eyes, just like before. Light makeup, that spark. My girl. My wife. My heart.
Since then? I’ve made sure Emily feels loved. Listen, help, surprise. And guess what? She gives back warmth, tenderness, passion no young “Soph” could match.
So lads—want passion? Don’t hunt for side flings. Look at your wife. Maybe all you need’s to court her again. Properly, like at the start. Then you won’t get a fling—you’ll get a lifetime. I know. I’ve lived it.